


Love most Forbidden

by alesofthephilosopherstoned



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Freeform, M/M, Mention of blood, Stridercest - Freeform, bet you thought this fic was dead, chapter four Mofos!!!!, crossdressing???, just a long ass hiatus, nope - Freeform, oh hey the tag on tumblr is #Love Most Forbidden if you wanna talk about it there, this is my christmas present for all of you btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alesofthephilosopherstoned/pseuds/alesofthephilosopherstoned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you may have accidentally developed a crush on the wrong person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Thoughts

Your name is Dave Strider and you feel like you’re going to be sick. It’s not like you had food poisoning or the flu, you were just disgusted at what a sick fuck you were. You were bored, so like any teenage boy you masturbated. The door was firmly shut and locked even though Bro was out getting food.

You thought about John a lot. What his face would look like as you stroked his dick. What he would sound like. But this time it was different. You imagined him fucking you against the counter, the cold marble digging into your hips. He’d lean over and call you a dirty slut. You moaned as you pictured his hand gliding down your abdomen to stroke you. He’d roll his hips and you were gone.

As you came down from your high coldness slithered down into your stomach and coiled up tightly there.  You weren’t thinking about John. You were thinking about Bro.

You clean yourself up and shuffle to the bathroom, kneeling down before the toilet as your head hung in the bowl. You don’t believe in any greater being but you still begged someone, anyone to punish you. Your hands shake as you grip the edge of the seat and empty your stomach. Your body is covered in cold sweat and you don’t feel any better.

“Are you okay?”

You startle. Bro’s home and that’s the last thing you need right now.

“Yeah I’m fine. Just….sick.”

“Do you need anything?”

No. Aw hell no. You don’t want to see him right now. When you were little he could read you like a goddamn bedtime story. He still can. He’ll ask if something’s wrong and right now your mind is too blurry to come up with a good excuse. Besides if you say that nothing’s wrong he’ll start snooping and you don’t want that either.

“I think I got it handled.”

You can hear him shift around in the main room as he puts the groceries away. You flush the toilet and stand up then move over to the sink to stare for a century at the face in the mirror. You turn the knob and fill up the sink and splash the cold water on your face. Grabbing a towel from the rack you dry your face off. Eventually you manage to pull off a trademark Strider pokerface and reach for the mouthwash. Your mouth was beginning to get rancid. Finally you open the door and stride out with all the swagger you can muster.

Bro’s sitting on the couch with a bag of chips in his lap and the remote in one hand. You walk up behind him as stealthily as you can and place your hand palm down against his throat.

“If I were an assassin you’d be dead.”

“You wouldn’t kill me with a sword, lil man. I could take you down so fast it would make your head spin. Hell, your best bet is to poison the food. ” He tagged on as an afterthought “you poison the food and I kick your ass.”

You hop over the back of the couch and land next to him. You grab a few chips and stare at the screen, but you’re not really paying attention to what’s happening on it. “Like you could.” You retort. Hear that? That’s the sound of proverbial shots being fired. What are you doing with this metaphorical gun? You’re more a sword guy personally.

“Is that a challenge.”

He didn’t say it like a question. It was more a threat, a promise to hand you your ass on a silver platter like a butler on Butler Island. “Yeah.” you reply with a smug grin.

“Roof. 5 minutes. Don’t be late.”

With those words he flashstepped away, leaving just you and the TV and remote. Fatass took the chips. Maybe a good strife would get your mind out of the gutter.

How very wrong you were.


	2. Strife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro is really hot when he’s pointing a katana at your neck

You head to your room to pick up your katana. It’s a cheap piece of shit but it can deal a few good blows and take some. Not that you two ever use the sharpened edge but getting hit with a piece of metal will still leave you sore and bruised for maybe a week. Your weapon has seen better days but it can probably handle maybe 5 more strifes until it gets wrecked. You also grab a bottle of apple juice. A man’s gotta stay hydrated. You spin the top off and chug the golden elixir down. You always got a little nervous before strifing with Bro. or was it excitement? The opportunity to roughly compare your skill against your brother always made your heart pound. You wanted him to respect you, to be proud of you and there was no way to earn it other than scraping and clawing for it. You take a deep breath in and exhale slowly through your nose. Time to get your ass to the roof.

You grab your keys off the nightstand (bro has been known in the past to have forgotten his and asking the landlord for the spare key while holding blades raised a few questions). You walk past the main room and out into the hallway. You had a few flights of stairs to climb and you use that time to steel yourself. There was a brick already wedged in the doorway as you have learned that the door to the roof doesn’t open from the outside after your first strife. You push open the door and fuck the sun was bright. Bro is standing at one side of the roof while the crows skittered around him. He had his katana pressed against his back, helping him stretch out and making his muscles prominent.

“Did you stretch?” he asks you. “You gave me 5 minutes and it takes 4 minutes to hike up those stairs, what do you think?” you reply. “Quick warm-up, don’t want you twerking anything and becoming the next Miley.” He instructed with a hint of a smirk. You glared him down from behind your shades and you knew he could see it because his smirk grew ever so slightly. Jackass. You set your sword down and linked your hands behind your head, stretching out your chest and earning a few cracks along your upper back. A few torso twists, head bends and joint circles along with some weird crinkly sounds your body emitted (was that normal?) and you were ready to go.

The crows circled overhead like lofty spectators as you and bro fought. You were fast but he was always a step ahead of you, predicting almost all of your moves and blocking them just as they were about to land. He managed to land maybe one or two good whacks before you retreated. You two used to fight with the bladed end and you have very light, faded scars crisscrossing along your back and arms to prove it. They were never deep, and you never needed stitches, but remembering the sensation of cold wrought iron biting into your flesh still made you tense up a little. You started using the back of the blade after you landed your first blow. It was pretty deep and required at bare minimum ten stitches you guessed. But even with his wound staining his polo shirt red he praised you as you tried not to freak out. You distinctly remember him taking his shirt off and ripping it into strips to slow the bleeding. He trotted down the stairs and hopped in the car, towing you along, all the while having the closest thing to a proud fatherly grin you’ve ever seen plastered on his face. He drove to the hospital and was in a fairly long time. A few hours maybe. You were forced to stay in the waiting room but it wasn’t all bad because they had a TV. When he finally came out he turned around, thanked the nurse and signed some papers. The very next thing he did was take you to Dairy Queen and let you pick whatever you wanted. You picked a vanilla cone coated in turtle shell chocolate. He healed in a few weeks but you’re pretty sure you left a scar. And you never wanted to do that again. You demanded that you either keep your swords sheathed or used the back (as they were sharpened nicely and any cloth bound over it probably wouldn’t last long). The sheaths were nicely decorated and weren’t made for hard battle so back of the blade it was.

You moved in quickly and tried to keep as close as you could, like you were dancing. His sword was longer than yours and took more space to maneuver smoothly. Even though he could land more hits if you messed up if you kept real close you could land at least 3 solid hits in a row. He was good at defensive maneuvering too, constantly weaving the tango of blades around the roof in an effort to get you out from under his skin. After about 30 seconds of this he ducked low and straightened his leg and swept it backwards quickly. Your feet were knocked out clean from under you and you instinctively tucked up to avoid hitting your neck or head on the hard gravel-like surface. You hit the ground and your breath is forced out of your lungs. Bro stands back up as you lay there gasping like a fish. You lift your head up to stare into his eyes, furious that you had come so close and yet you were still the one with your back on the ground. Bro slowly lowered the tip of his sword so it was lightly resting on your neck, so you knew you had been beaten.

You took this moment to scan him behind your dark shades. Sweat made his shirt cling to his skin, teasing you with hints of a well sculpted torso. His hat had been knocked off during battle at some point and his light blond hair shone in the sunlight. It stuck up in some places but was matted down to his neck by sweat. The way his head was cocked just so. His posture; cool and level headed and completely at ease, like he always knew this was the outcome, like he always planned for this to happen. His chest rose and fell evenly; taking deep breaths and his eyes were probably flittering around your body. Not to take in what you looked like or anything, but just to see if you hand any damage. You let your head fall back against the pebbles and the sword pulled away. His gloved hand was extended to help you up. You bat it away. You could get up on your own. You didn’t need his help, you didn’t want to be his lesser. You wanted to be his equal. You wanted to be able to meet his eyes, his real eyes and not the pointy glasses he wore, and not flinch away. You wanted to be able to best him in battle one day. You didn’t want to be seen as a defenseless child anymore damnit! You were 16 years old and you were a Strider. You wanted his attention. You wanted him to notice you, to be proud of you. You wanted his affection, you wanted his love, and as you realized with a gross dropping of your stomach you wanted HIM. You wanted everything he was and everything he had to give and you wanted to be his.

You, Dave Strider wanted your fucking Brother, in every sense of the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a quick shout out to Dospointoh for getting my lazy ass in gear, keeping me focused, and fixing my many, many tense errors. love ya buddy!


	3. Package

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is Dirk Strider and you didn’t order these. Your name is Dave and this wasn’t suppose to happen.

== > a week later

 

  
Your name is Dirk Strider and you did not order these. Yes, the box has your name on it and yes, it has the right address, but unless you have short term memory loss these are definitely not yours. By these you mean the fire truck red thong-pantie hybrid with black lace wrapping daintily around the edges. They are much smaller than your size and feel silky and cool to the touch. Some poor asshole probably mispackaged it and was getting chewed out by a manager, who in turn was chewed out by an angry housewife hoping to get lucky tonight. But they seemed a bit small for a full sized woman, looked like something an older teen… would… order…..

Dave?!  
The irony seemed a bit advanced for him, but he was growing up and learning your ways. He already can grow some fuzz on his face and while it doesn’t look good yet, it will later. He’s also finally filling out his tall, lanky frame with some muscle and the smooth chubs of baby fat have mostly been replaced with the sharp angles trademark of adulthood. But his ass was a completely different matter. His ass somehow managed to stay baby plush but shape up into a more defined shape. The bright red undergarment was still between your hands. You picture his miraculously plush ass filling out the spandex-like material. He’d look good in lady’s underwear. Wait, what!? This was your little brother and that was a really weird, hopefully isolated, thought. You push the image to the back of your mind, where it will never see the light of day. You place the panties back in the box and set the box on the counter. You figure the lil man would get a kick out of this.

  
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Your name is Dave Strider and this was _**not** happening_. Fucking _hell_ you had been so careful about the whole process but (just like normal) it all comes crashing down as soon as the finish line is a few feet away. You had ordered them online, because you hated the gross perfume filled atmosphere of PINK! and Victoria’s Secret. Not to mention it was just fucking weird that you, a dude, would buy lady’s underwear. Yeah, you could easily say they were for your girlfriend, but you’d still get weird looks in the store by college girls and employees alike. As much as you’d love to make everyone appreciate the irony of the theoretical situation, you were on a mission. A mission to buy the most seductive, yet not totally whorish, underpants you could afford. A few clicks of your mouse and a clattering of keys later the package was on its way. You chose red, because red was sort of your signature color. And black, because that was the only available lace color that didn’t look too girly. It said _hey I’m an independent, strong woman who would also like to get laid sometime in the next 5 minutes…_  
And here they are, being held in your brother’s hand, while he was rambling on about how some poor kid had fucked up. Meanwhile you were trying your best to look like you weren’t flipping shit like it was your minimum wage job. The gears in your head are set to overdrive trying to think of a way to discretely get your purchase back. You doubt he’d take them anywhere with him, but he is an unpredictable son of a bitch. Luckily when he retreated to his bedroom at 9:05 pm the panties were still on the counter. You swipe them off the cool marble surface and grab some duct tape to seal up the box. You left a message inside, telling them yes, you got the package. You also left a $5 to buy the return guy’s silence. You place the box on the counter with a post-it note attached saying you took care of repackaging the underwear. Oh yeah, you were smooth. As smooth as a buttered tile floor. Good prank, bruises that last quite a while, but a good prank nonetheless. You’ll get him back for that one day.  
You tiptoe over to your room and close the door behind you; it shuts with a stately clik. You shove the undies to the very back of your dresser under some other clothes so it won’t be too easy to find. Your hand pulls off your shades and places them on the bedside table, where they always go. You strip off your sweaty shirt and jeans. The Texas spring always seemed a little ungodly hot for right after winter. Was it really too much to ask for a warm sun AND a cool breeze because, apparently, yes, yes it was. You flop back onto the bed and don’t even bother with the covers; you want the covers to be basically as far away from your body as possible. You kick them to the end of your bed and push your head against the pillow. You close your crimson eyes and the mornings golden light finds you tangled up in the sheets anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm probably going to regret this but if you'd like to talk to me for any reason (listing triggers, feedback, compliments, anything) my tumblr is alesofthephilosopherstoned.tumblr.com
> 
> Once again a huge thanks to everybody but especially to dospointoh (the editor) and my RP group (beta testers)


	4. School

The alarm blares and you slam your hand down on top of it. It was a speaker system for your iPhone but even if that was your mix it doesn’t sound good at six in the fucking morning. You consider staying in bed and waiting a few more minutes but Bro would come in and bug you. You miraculously manage to separate yourself from your cozy bed and shuffle into the shower, grumbling all the way. The water was ice cold and goose bumps crawl over your entire body. You wish Bro wouldn’t take obscenely long showers and leave you to shower in subzero temperatures. You force your stiff hands to open the bottle and proceed to suds your head with cinnamon-apple shampoo. You smell like a goddamn apple crisp and you love it. You turn off the water after all the shampoo’s out of your hair. You step out onto the cold unforgiving tile floor, pulling your red towel off the rack. Bro’s towel was hung and felt warm and damp. No you didn’t just smell his towel; that would be so weird, not to mention really fuckin’ creepy.

It’s Old Spice Ocean Breeze mixed with winter mint shaving cream, light but spicy. Not that you leaned in close for a better smell, it’s just that it permeated the humid room.

Towel securely wrapped around your waist you head over to your room. You dry yourself off after closing and locking the door. You were a man who like to have his privacy when he was doing super top secret stuff. Like putting on underpants. But not just any underpants, lady’s underpants. You breathe in deeply, steeling your nerves. Today was the day. You pull the panties out from the very back of your drawer; it seems like you put them there forever ago or not at all, like it was a dream. You slowly slide the red material over your pale skin, the contrast like blood on snow. You made sure to tuck everything in there; they were a bit tight but its better tight than having your naked spam porpoise swimming merrily through everyone’s horrorstruck vision. No free willy today. You pull your skinny black jeans up over them and pull a non-descript shirt with a crow on it over your torso. You tiptoe around the various wires you have tracing around your room like a cyber-spiders’ web and make your way towards the kitchen for breakfast.

You open up the pantry looking for that small, familiar blue box. You spot it after about 10 seconds and pull it forward. You tilt it just enough to pull out a silver package and slid the box back into place. You probably couldn’t survive the bus ride to school if you didn’t have warm poptarts and coffee. You could scrape by with artificially flavored sugar coated cereal on a good day but you already have enough to worry about without falling asleep during first period math. Math, first fucking period. Honestly you’re surprised you’re not completely failing that class. You shake your head, sympathizing with yourself while you push down the toasters lever.

You look over at the coffeepot, pleasantly surprised that there’s actually a full serving worth of coffee.  Bro always had first dibs on everything if he could help it. Not that you blame him, he was the money maker after all. You’ll have to get a job soon you muse, maybe as a bagger boy? Maybe work a convenient store? You pour out a mug for yourself, watering it down with a bit of milk and a fuckton of sugar. You’re surprised you haven’t gotten Type 2 yet.

A breeze flows behind you and you are immediately on alert. The windows are closed because its godforsakenly hot outside and the AC isn’t supposed to come on yet. Bro’s on the prowl and all the hairs on the back of your neck are standing up like you have static electricity coursing through your veins. Your ears pick up a very quiet rustling in the next room. You think youll stay here, you have everything you need here, like food. That’s basically it. That’s all you need right now.

But you have to go to school. It’s not like you want to, it’s just that if you get one more unexcused absence you’ll have to go to after school detention and that means missing the bus. And that means either getting a ride from Bro or walking in this sweltering heat. Both sound like fuckin terrible options.

Your poptart jumps out of the toaster and you just about have a heart attack. It would be a great shame if the world lost an incredible person before he was even discovered. Why must the good always hypothetically die young?! You couldn’t even join the 27 club. You weren’t even mandated to hang out with a contest winner as stated in your contract. Or maybe you’d become a photographer or film maker. You hope they show your youtube channel at your funeral. You have so many good homemade films of utmost irony on there.

You actually just grip the counter to steady yourself while your heart races along. You quickly pull the hot pasteries out of the toaster by your fingertips because the toaster either didn’t do anything or it turned whatever it was cooking into literal lava. It also burned shit, you learned, but you tend to stay away from that setting. You preferred your food without a charred outer layer. You lay it down on a napkin (less dishes for you to do), grab your coffee and walk cautiously into the next room.

“Could we not do this today, mornings are rough enough without being assaulted.” You announce to the seemingly empty room. Bro’s head pops out from under the futon and you question how the fuck he managed to fit under there.

“Only if we double sparring this afternoon.” he replied, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

“Deal.” you groan out. You’d really rather not, but if it guarantees your safe passage you suppose it’s worth it. You sit down on the futon and hope you crush him a little. He doesn’t even flinch. You bring the cup up to your lips and let the warm liquid slide down your throat. Your crimson eyes aren’t covered by your mirrored shades and look dully out the window at the pitiful watercolor sunrise. Bro leans over the back of the couch and you can’t look at him. You’re not safe, not with your eyes uncovered. All other parts of your face, your voice, your posture, everything you’ve learned to control to convey minimal emotions. But your eyes, youre fucking eyes were so goddamn expressive you could probably make people burst into tears just by looking at them. You wear shades for the good of society, and for yourself.

With 10 minutes left to get your backpack and cram all your homework into it and grab your headphones and ipod from off its speaker stand. You turn it to the Daft Punk  channel and Teachers comes on. What a good song to walk to. You started liking Daft Punk ironically, I mean robots singing disco songs about love? Who wouldn't like a band like that? Then you genuinely began enjoying it. Not that you’d tell anyone, you’d just keep up the charade. Bro knew, of course. He got you the Discovery album on vinyl one year for Christmas.

You sit down on the bus and the panties begin climbing up your asscrack. Man, how do girls DO this all day?! You wiggle back and forth trying to pull the offending material out only to bunch it up more. You give up and slump against your backpack wedged between you and the bus. you learned it was always better to have a little bit of cushion between your head and the minor-concussion-giving bus.

You arrive at school with 5 minutes before class. You make a beeline for the restroom and head into one of the stalls to pluck the fabric out from betwixt thy buttocks. sweet, sweet unflossed butt. You lounge in the computer room for a while before heading upstairs to first period math with Mrs. Haverncamp, a shriveled, hunched over, woman with loose off color skin draping off her bones, a tight lipped frown, piercing hazel eyes, and an intense hatred towards highschoolers. She reminded you of a vulture, the way she loved darker clothes and seemed to perch upon her chair.

Her class was easy to understand as long as you could get notes from another student, which was almost all the time. You all banned together against her tyrannical reign and enjoyed pulling her off on tangents and making her forget to assign homework the last 5 minutes of class. She caught on soon of course, but all of you just altered your battle strategy. She hated sleepers with a burning passion and would rap hard on your desk with her beloved wooden ruler if she caught you. You were rarely caught, as you taught yourself to sleep propped up on your elbows with your closed eyes hidden behind your shades for “medical reasons”.

It was all over in one 45 minute blink of an eye. You asked Greg if you could see his notes later and he said yes. Second period is gym. Gym. Second goddamn period. Your life was just a living hell. At least you had 8th period off so you could get out early. Not like you had a car or anything, but your penny board can get you around.

You walk into gym with your gym clothes in your mesh bag and- wait. fuck. fucking shit. god fucking damn it. You had to change. You had to change and you were wearing a THONG. There were no bathrooms in the guys locker room and the only place that offered any sort of obscured vision was the unlit shower stalls. You mosey over to the stalls and shimmy out of your pants.  It smells like mildew and sweat over here and you’re pretty sure thats a pube on the ground but its all good because you change in record time and get out of there.

Dodgeball today. Nice. You take out several of the better players and manage to avoid all the balls with your sickass moves. By the end of class you’re breathing hard and covered in a sheen of sweat. Gross. You go into the locker room at the end of the period to spray a bit of axe on and some new deodorant and take your pants off, completely forgetting about the underpants.

“Dave, what the fuck?”

Shit. Yeah, ok so this was bad, but you could probably twist the situation around with a high level of irony.

“Dude why you looking? That’s kinda really gay bro.” You reply offhandedly, thankful once again for your striderous monotone.

“Well, shit, it’s kinda hard to miss.” Oh, he was good.

“Listen man, sometime I don’t feel as beautiful as I’d like. These make me feel sexy. You wouldn’t want to lower my self esteem, would you?” You strike a sexy pose.

He waves you off and turns around, evidently not ready to deal with your bullshit. There would probably be rumors around the school. You could deal with that. You always have. You just needed one person's approval really. And that was your bro. God you hope this was worth it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Homestuck and characters belong to Andrew Hussie. I'm not sure how many chapters this will have as I'm making it up as I go along. Creative criticism appreciated. Thank you for reading!


End file.
